


Christmas Truce

by Nantai



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Christmas Truce of 1914, M/M, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-18 00:11:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13088358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nantai/pseuds/Nantai
Summary: Two soldiers on different sides of the trench warfare. They meet during a Christmas truce and never expected to see each other again, but fate had different plans! Muggle AU, World War 1





	1. 1914

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: war typical, graphic violence, mention of bodily punishments, suicide thoughts, as well as acceptance of the possibility of death
> 
> Disclaimer: The characters belong to JK Rowling, the setting and plot to me. I don't make any money with this (although that would be very nice)

Oliver Wood hated the war. It was supposed to end quickly; they were supposed to be back home by Christmas. Now it was the night before twenty-fourth of December 1914 and they hadn't moved an inch in the last few weeks.

"What do you think those Germans are doing right now?" Percy Weasley asked him quietly. The redhead had dark bags under his eyes and was nearly bone-thin by now.

"Dunno, don't care," Oliver said distractedly, trying to read the newspaper scrap he had found. It mentioned the Aberdeen F. C., his favourite team.

Suddenly they heard a shrill whistle. "Oi, you Tommies, we would like to sing a few Christmas songs at seven thirty. Would be wonderful if you didn't disturb the harmony with your bullets!" somebody called over the no man's land.

"You kiddin'?" Percy called back.

"No, we'll put candles on the edge of the trench when we start!" they answered.

"Alright, have fun!" Oliver called. He understood the sentiment all too well and his men wouldn't dare to disobey him.

They continued with their nightly duties of taking care of their trench and themselves. It was still dark when Oliver spotted the flickering flame of a candle.

"Cease fire!" he commanded, even though it was just a formality. The shooting wouldn't start until it was light.

At first no sound crossed the distance between the trenches, but then the wind changed its direction and distinct singing could be heard. After a few minutes more and more voices joined in and finally the Brits could hear what they were singing.

"Silent Night?" Percy whispered, flabbergasted.

"Seems so," Bill Weasley, his older brother, replied. He had been Captain of their unit once, by now he was their Major. "It sounds strange in German to be honest."

"Everything sounds strange in German," Charlie Weasley, the middle brother, joked.

Oliver chuckled and decided to light a fag and enjoy the peace while it lasted. He leaned back against the cold, wet mud and tried to feel comfortable. But he wasn't. Not at all.

When the Germans stopped singing Oliver put out his fag and took up his rifle. It was day by now. But then the whistle that had sounded earlier in the morning sounded once again.

"Merry Christmas!" many called and then the one who had asked for a ceasefire called: "Care for a duet?"

"I would rather die than sing in German!" Oliver Wood called over.

"And we would kill you if you tried!" the German called back. Laughter welled up on both sides. "But I think 'Silent Night' has the same melody in each language."

Oliver had to chuckle at the cheek. "Alright, deal!"

This time the Brits started and the Germans joined in at the first chorus.

Oliver had to admit that it wasn't the cold burning in his eyes. Why couldn't they just stop this damned war altogether if they managed to be peaceful on Christmas Eve?

By the time they stopped singing the sun was high in the sky, and Oliver could finally read his football scores.

* * *

Marcus Flint had to admit that he was glad that the Brits seemed to have a sense of humour. That little concert had gone really well and his Major had only rolled his eyes once. Marcus leaned back against the mud. It was cold and wet and definitely most uncomfortable but he was Hauptmann on duty so he couldn't just go and get himself a chair.

"Flint, you know the football scores?" Müller asked quietly.

"No, haven't seen a newspaper in days," Marcus said and suddenly he had a weird idea. He stood up and peeked over the edge of the trench, hoping that he wasn't visible enough to be shot. "Anyone got the latest football scores over there?" Marcus called and listened for any replies.

The same voice who had answered his first questions called back. "Yeah, but I don't fancy shouting them over to you." After a short silence he continued. "Christmas truce?"

Marcus looked over to Major Malfoy who shrugged and nodded. Even though he was only seventeen, the boy had been made Major since he was high nobility.

"Truce! I will come up first, so we know that you honour your word," Marcus called and stood up from his crouched position slowly. When no bullet hit him immediately he made his way to a ladder.

He stepped on the first rung and pushed himself up slowly. Marcus repeated that process until he was able to step on the no man's land. Still he could only hear sounds of bullets and grenades whizzing through the air from a distance. Marcus realised that on the other side of the scarred ground another man had stepped from the trench. They walked towards each other, bodies and faces tense, expecting an ambush the whole time.

"Morgen," Marcus said as soon as they were in speaking distance. "I am Hauptmann Marcus Flint."

"Morning," the other replied. "Captain Oliver Wood."

Standing in front of each other they measured up their supposed enemy. Marcus was a bit bigger than the burly Captain Wood, but he wouldn't want to fight hand-to-hand with the man. His fists looked as if he could crush rocks with them.

"Maybe we should shake hands to show our men that it's safe to come out," Wood suggested and stretched his hand out.

"Sounds like a good idea," Marcus replied stiffly and clasped the other's hand. Of course they tried to crush the other and finally Marcus gave up. "Now, you said something about football scores?"

Wood laughed. "Gave them to my Lieutenant so you wouldn't shoot me and get them anyway."

Marcus snorted. "Come on, we are Germans, not some French frog eaters!"

"So the Boches are that much better?" Wood asked, his eyes glinting, and he was obviously trying to suppress a grin.

"Obviously. We haven't retreated a metre since we came here after all," Marcus joked and Wood chuckled drily. They were interrupted by a young dark-skinned man.

"Captain, your newspaper!" he said and thrust the paper into Wood's hands.

"Thank you Johnson," Wood said with a smile.

"That one wasn't older than nineteen and he is your Lieutenant?" Marcus asked in astonishment.

"Angus just turned twenty-one, and he is extremely talented. The men listen to him," Wood explained with a smile. It didn't reach his eyes.

Marcus spotted Müller and called him over. "Captain, do you mind if Feldwebel Müller takes the newspaper for a moment?" he asked with a wink and Wood actually blushed.

"Yeah, of course," he said looking a bit flustered. "By the way: are those miniature Christmas trees on the edges of your trench?"

Turning around Marcus had to admit that it looked like it. "Welcher Idiot…? Oberleutnant Pucey!" he bellowed.

The man flinched and Marcus nearly regretted his reaction. But then the young man turned around and came to him. "Ja, Hauptmann?"

"Who had the fucking idea to put the Christmas trees there?" Marcus barked.

"Major Malfoy. He said if we wanted to honour the holiday spirit we might as well do it properly," the Oberleutnant answered, shaking like a leaf in the wind. Marcus had to admit that he was known to punish misbehaving soldiers hard, but he hadn't known that he could ignite such fear.

"Alright," Marcus sighed. The Major was really too young for all of this. "Might as well get the packages from home and maybe some firewood. What do you think, Captain?"

"Lieutenant Johnson!" Wood called and the young man appeared at his side. "Get the packages from the Crown and firewood. Might as well make it cosy out here."

Marcus laughed. "Our commanders would explode if they saw us. I like it."

"Well, McGonagall would probably understand, even if he would lecture us quite thoroughly," Wood said, mirth glinting in his eyes. Marcus noted the hard edge to his words though and wondered what kind of person the Colonel was.

* * *

Oliver watched the Hauptmann. When he had called his Oberleutnant the man had flinched as if he expected to be punished. Well, Flint looked like one of those officers who reigned with an iron hand. But his men seemed very disciplined and maybe it wasn't as bad as Oliver thought.

"Snape would tear us to pieces if he knew," Flint said quietly. "Would probably have my head for this. Malfoy's is too precious. But mine? Nobody cares about a lowly baron."

Oliver looked over to the other man. His expression was dark and the Scotsman had the sneaking suspicion that he meant what he said literally. Out of habit Oliver flipped his pack of fags open only to remember that he had smoked his last one during the 'concert'.

Putting his pack away he turned to call for someone to get him his things. But before he could say anything the Hauptmann hold a fag under his nose. Literally.

"Care to try the German stuff?" he asked, his voice gruff and a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"Are you sure that my Scottish lungs will survive that?" Oliver joked, but he took the fag and produced a flame from his lighter.

"So that's why I have a hard time understanding you," Flint said, lighting his own fag.

"Yeah, sorry about that," Oliver said sarcastically and the other laughed. "By the way, congratulations to your terrible accent."

"I know. My father got grey hairs from me not being able to pronounce words," Flint said chuckling. "I guess being from Saxony doesn't work too well with English."

"Maybe," Oliver admitted.

They fell silent again, watching their men prepare camp fires. They brought benches from a close-by farm house. Finally they were done and Johnson and Pucey came over.

"Hauptmann, Captain, if you would light the fire?" Pucey asked while saluting them. Johnson stood next to him doing the same.

They exchanged a glance and shrugged. Oliver stepped forward and was given a few dry twigs which he lit. Flint did the same on the other side of the pyre.

Soon the camp fire was burning and the soldiers settled on the benches around it. It was afternoon by now and they decided to get their rations and eat at the fire. Nobody felt like sleeping even though they all had been awake through the night, repairing and restocking their respective trenches.

"Is your Major here?" Flint asked Oliver after they had eaten their meagre meals in silence for a few minutes.

"No, he thought the risk that a sharpshooter would hit him would be too high," Oliver said taking a sip from his flask.

"Good. Malfoy would have been angry if he found out that yours was here but he wasn't," Flint said laughing. "He is a bit insecure about his position since he didn't earn it."

"Understandably so," Oliver said, lighting his next fag. He really did smoke too much. Not that it mattered. He would be dead soon anyway. "I would be nervous as well if I hadn't worked my way up."

Suddenly one of the Germans brought a ball from their trench and many Brits jumped up to join in the game. Oliver exchanged a glance with Flint who was smiling brightly.

"I bet we Germans can beat you easily!" he called jumping up and running to his men.

"Challenge accepted!" Oliver shouted and walked over to his own men who opened their circle for him. "Alright, same procedure as last time, when we played against those idiots of the Fifth. But remember, don't let them too far in!"

"Yes, Captain!" the ten other men yelled and walked to their positions.

Oliver saw Flint taking position as a striker, while he positioned himself in the makeshift goal. He and his men had played football back in Blighty, partly to train their endurance and partly to get to know each other. It was unusual but worked pretty well.

Soon Oliver noticed that the Germans played rather aggressively and his men had taken a few rough fouls. But as usual Charlie had made three goals by now anyway. Flint was quite a danger; luckily Angus Johnson managed to steal the ball from the Hauptmann more than once.

The score was thirteen to thirteen when suddenly a German soldier came running to Flint and interrupted their game. He saluted his Hauptmann and said something. Oliver's German was terrible but he understood the words "Inspektion" and "Oberstleutnant".

"Captain, we have to get going. I don't know how long the Oberstleutnant will stay, but maybe we could repeat this for New Year's Eve?" the Hauptmann asked and Oliver nodded. "Müller, give the Captain his newspaper! Zurück in die Gräben!"

Oliver send his men back into the trench as well and he was the last to descend. When he turned around he saw Flint standing on the edge of his trench. He was saluting. Oliver hoped he would see the Hauptmann again. That man had a wicked sense of humour and was an excellent football-player.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome to a new story of mine! If you have any questions feel free to ask and let me know what you liked in the comments! :) Beta credit goes to viv-heart and reynardinepttr (who is the fastest beta reader I've ever seen!)


	2. 1915

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! I want to remind you to head the warnings and enjoy the chapter. Again betalove goes to viv-heart and reynardinepttr :)

Major Flint sighed heavily. His men were testy at the best of times but currently they seemed to be rather close to desertion. They would be in the trenches for another Christmas. This winter promised to be rather warm; that meant mud and wet clothing. But at least they wouldn't have to worry about people freezing to death as much as their comrades in the eastern battlefields had to.

The young Major rubbed his knee. There would be rain on the next day, maybe even on Christmas Day. Since the bullet that had hit him in July Marcus had learned to live with his personal forecasting tool. At least he hadn't been crippled by it. His former Leutnant had had less luck; he had been sent home with only half a leg left.

Soon after, Major Malfoy had gone missing. There were stories that he had fallen for a British nurse and they had eloped. But Marcus knew that Malfoy had chosen to flee to Great Britain before he met the nurse. Well, as long as Generalmajor Riddle didn't find him he should be safe. But Riddle was famous for his ruthlessness while searching for deserted soldiers, especially officers. He always made sure they would hang where people could see them.

"Major," Korporal Crabbe stepped up to him and saluted. "The unit would like to know if there will be a Christmas truce this year."

Marcus sighed again. He wasn't sure how the Crabbes managed to convince anyone to give their son any rank in the military. The boy was plain stupid and Marcus wasn't even sure how Crabbe had never injured himself so far. Asking for a Christmas truce! Everyone knew that the OHL had forbidden participating in such a thing by the punishment of thirty hits with a cane and no treatment in the infirmary. Marcus hated caning his men. It meant they wouldn't be able to fight for at least three days.

"Korporal, for asking alone I could administer a caning," Marcus answered coldly.

"I- I know, Major. But the unit thought…because you did it last year, so maybe you would agree to at least stop shooting for an hour in the evening," Crabbe answered hurriedly.

Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose. "We will see about it tomorrow. Now remove yourself and make sure that nobody else thinks about asking me!"

"Yes, Major!" Crabbe saluted and nearly ran away.

Marcus' thoughts returned to the last Christmas and Captain Wood. He wondered what had become of the man. Would his men ask for a truce on Christmas as well? How would he react? But it didn't matter. They were somewhere else now, just like the Brits probably.

It was five in the morning of Christmas Eve when the wind turned and Marcus was able to hear singing in the distance. Many of his soldiers stopped their work on securing the sides of the trench and turned to their Major.

"Keep working, or do you want to be caned?" Marcus bellowed and they returned to their positions only to be stopped by a Brit calling over the ground between the trenches.

"Hauptmann Flint?!"

Marcus froze. That couldn't be!

"It's Major, Captain Wood!" he called back, as much indignation in his voice as he could manage while smiling brightly.

"It's Major, Major!" Wood shouted and Marcus laughed.

"Major, what are your orders?" Hauptmann Montague whispered next to Marcus, who shrugged. He wasn't entirely sure.

"You know, Flint, we would like a chance to even out the scores from the last game," Wood called while Marcus was still thinking.

"Now that I can't play you'd probably even have a chance!" Marcus called. "How about a ceasefire starting at the first morning light?"

There was a short silence on the other side of the battlefield. "Sounds decent to me," Wood finally answered and Marcus signalled his men to get back into position.

"Alright, I hope you have cigarettes because I smoked my last yesterday!" Marcus said to finalise their kind-of-truce.

"Sure, now if you don't mind we have work to do!" Wood called and Marcus only laughed.

* * *

Oliver admitted that he was grinning far too widely. He shouldn't be this happy about a chance to 'fraternise' with the enemy. Fifty lashes for anyone who disobeyed the order against the Christmas truces. He heard it was caning with thirty hits for the Germans. Oliver wondered what Flint had meant when he said that he wasn't able to play. If he had been crippled he wouldn't have been made Major.

Oliver watched the sky behind the Germans closely, he was waiting for it to become lighter so he could tell his men that they didn't need to start shooting. They had nagged him for a Christmas truce all of last week and he had finally given in.

But they had a new sharpshooter and Oliver feared that he would hit the enemy Major anyway if he showed himself. The boy was positively fanatic in his hate for Germans. Maybe it was somehow related to his best friend running away with the former German Major.

"Major Wood?" Captain Weasley approached him quietly. "Are you sure it's a good idea to give the Germans an opening to shoot us all?"

Oliver looked up at the young red-head. He had been engaged to Miss Granger before she fell for Major Malfoy and broke the engagement. "Ronald, I know the Major, he would never condone such behaviour."

"But those Germans are lying pigs!" Weasley exclaimed.

Oliver just rolled his eyes. "Captain, I appreciate your worry but I'm suitably sure that Major Flint would rather lose a limb than break a truce."

Ron huffed and turned away. The youngest Weasley brother had a fiery temper and his hatred for Germans was infamous amongst the men.

Another hour later the sky finally started to light up in the east and Oliver gave the order for ceasefire.

But he still hesitated to step out of the trench. What if an enemy sniper was more loyal to the orders than to Flint? He only then realised that the movement on the other side of the battlefield was Flint climbing up the ladder. Cursing Oliver hurried to do the same.

He was glad that Potter had obviously managed to assess the situation correctly and didn't shoot the Major.

Just like last time, they met in the middle of the battlefield and shook hands. They signalled for their men to come up afterwards and sat down on the ruins of a building. There wasn't enough left to be certain what it had once been.

"Now, Flint, why did you say you weren't able to play?" Oliver asked when their men had settled around them and started to talk quietly.

"Took a shot to the knee in July, not as quick on my feet ever since," the other man explained gruffly, rubbing his knee absentmindedly.

"That sounds awful," Oliver said, taking the cup with tea from Captain Weasley who glared at Flint.

"I have to ask, Major, what's your first name again?" Flint asked playing with the hem of his jacket.

"Oliver, yours is Marcus, right?" he asked giving the cup to Marcus.

"Right, seems you have a better memory than I have," the other said drily.

"Nah, just a childhood rival who had the same first name," Oliver explained chuckling.

Marcus snorted. "War ja klar, of course he'd have a childhood rival with the same first name."

"To be honest, I like you more than him," Oliver said bluntly and was rewarded with a smirk from the German Major.

"I guess it's my charming personality," he said with a wink and gave the tea cup back to Oliver, who took the last sip.

"That and your football skills," the Scot said, rubbing his eyes to hide his blush.

"Oh, we play one game and you're head over heels for me?" Marcus joked elbowing him into the side.

Oliver flinched, his ribs seemed to be broken after all. He ignored the way his heart had clenched as well at the thought of falling in love. Such nonsense. "Well, I know a good player if I see one. Weasley for example-"

"Which one, I remember at least three," Marcus interrupted him with a low chuckle.

"Ron, the youngest," Oliver said impatiently. "He could be an amazing keeper if he left his emotions in the changing room. He gets flustered too easily."

He saw Marcus looking over to the young Captain. "I see. You remember Pucey?"

Oliver nodded. "Yeah, what happened to him?"

"Lost his lower left leg," Marcus said quietly. "Real shame, he was an amazing striker if he could be convinced to play the position."

"Pity, did he at least get his pension?" Oliver asked just as subdued, the consequences of this war intruding into their little bit of peace.

"Ja, luckily, his family isn't exactly rich even though his father is some kind of an official," Marcus explained and Oliver nodded; he had seen cases like that.

A big guy with the insignia of an Hauptmann stepped closer. "Sirs, we would like to sing, would you join in?"

They exchanged a look and nodded. The Hauptmann turned to the men and announced that they would sing 'Silent Night'. While it was not dark enough for the feeling to come really through they still enjoyed it, and they followed it up with various other Christmas songs. When they were in the fourth song Oliver noticed that Marcus had shifted closer and that their eyes met more than once while singing. Each time they turned away quickly.

But Marcus's deep rumble felt calming to Oliver and it was wonderful to just sit with others and not think about the war for a few hours.

* * *

Marcus wondered whether he should ask Oliver for a game of passé-dix when the British captain stepped closer. "Sir, will you join the football game?"

Oliver looked over to Marcus for a moment. "No, I trust you to smash the Germans without my help. What was the score again?"

"Thirteen to thirteen," Marcus answered gruffly. Did the idiot stay out of the game so he wouldn't sit alone?

"Ah, right," Oliver said. "Go and win, Captain, that's an order!"

The young man saluted grinning. "Yes, Sir! God save the King, Sir!"

Oliver chuckled and Marcus felt himself smiling bitterly in return. "You didn't need to stay just because of me."

"I didn't want to play," Oliver admitted. "It didn't feel right to leave you on your own. And yes, I know that you're a fully grown man, perfectly able to take care of yourself. But I enjoy talking to you nevertheless!"

Marcus shut his mouth audibly. "You Brits and your decency," he grumbled good-naturedly. The Major liked talking to him? That was a first, most people found him too crude.

"Oh, come on, admit it, you like me!" Oliver said with fake indignation.

Marcus nearly choked. "Yeah, as much as one can like a prissy Brit," he said with a teasing smirk.

"Are you calling me a goody-two-shoes?" Oliver now sounded really indignant.

"Yeah, guess so," Marcus said casually. It was more fun to rail up the Major than he thought. He hadn't expected the fist in his cheek though. "Ow, you brute!"

"Oh, now I'm a brute, you should decide!" Oliver exclaimed standing up.

Marcus followed him with a predatory grin. "I think you should decide whether you are a British goody-two-shoes or a Scottish brute."

Oliver returned the grin and tackled him. They fought with well placed hits and kicks, having forgotten their surroundings for a moment. Finally Marcus had pinned Oliver to the ground. Between the ragged breaths they chuckled lowly.

Kneeling above him Marcus noticed that the other man was actually handsome. Taking in the Major's features Marcus realised that Oliver's eyes weren't brown but actually hazel and he had a light dusting of freckles on his nose.

Suddenly Marcus became very aware of their proximity and more so of their surroundings. "Good fight, Oliver," he said gruffly.

The Scot nodded silently, his eyes as big as saucers. "You're still kneeling on my legs, Marcus."

"Oh, sorry," Marcus rolled down from the other. "I'm glad my sniper didn't freak."

"Same, he is still a bit fanatical in his hate of your lot," Oliver said.

The leaned against the ruined wall on which they had sat moments before, catching their breaths and thinking about what the hell had just happened there.

Finally Marcus remembered his empty pack of cigarettes. "Do you have a smoke?" he asked, not quite sure how the other would react.

Oliver looked up startled. "Yeah, sure. Right, you asked, sorry that I forgot."

"No, it's alright," Marcus hurried to assure him.

They lit their cigarettes and sat in silence for some minutes until they heard raucous cheers from the other side of the ruins where the football game was going on.

"Sounds like someone managed to score," Oliver said standing up and offering his hand to Marcus. "Let's see whether we are any closer to winning against you."

Marcus barked a laugh. "Nah, no way. My men are too good!"

After another three hours they prepared to return to their respective trenches. They made sure that they had everything since they wouldn't return to the waste land until they had another ceasefire to remove the bodies.

Marcus turned to Oliver when they were the last still on the ground. "Fröhliche Weihnachten, Oliver."

"Merry Christmas, Marcus," the other replied and after a moment they hugged each other. "Stay safe."

"You too," Marcus answered and turned to walk back to his trenches. He wondered whether he would be able to keep his promise.


	3. 1916

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry I forgot to update yesterday! But you'll get two chapters today, that's something isn't it? All betalove to reynardinepttr. And Happy Holidays to you! :)

Oliver cursed like a sailor. Not only had His Majesty forbidden any and all truces, ceasefires and breaks, he had also put it under death penalty to break this law. The fifty lashes last year had been totally worth it, but death? Just to give his men a breather at Christmas? For goodness sake, this was inhumane!

While he understood the arguments, Oliver fumed nevertheless. His treacherous brain told him that it was out of disappointment that he wouldn't see Marcus but he pushed that thought away.

Sighing, Oliver opened the second telegram. He cursed once again. Trench duty in the last two years had been annoying enough. But joining an infantry attack on Christmas? This couldn't be anything else than a very personal punishment for declaring Christmas truces two years in a row. Damn Dumbledore for his insistence.

Oliver stuffed the telegrams into his jacket pocket and turned to go back to his men. He was stopped by Colonel Robert McGonagall Jr.

"Wood, we need to talk," he said sternly and Oliver felt some more curses on the tip of his tongue.

"Of course Sir, would you like to speak inside?" he asked politely instead.

"My office would be best," the Colonel said.

They stepped inside the barracks with the officers' offices. As soon as they had settled in McGonagall's office, Oliver lit a fag; his nerves would need the smoke.

"I'm sure it is very clear why your battalion was ordered to do infantry in the next week," the Colonel said as soon as he sat down.

"Yes, Sir," Oliver replied. He preferred to stand.

"Good, if I hear as much as a whisper that one of you didn't obey Lieutenant Colonel Weasley's orders it will be treated as a show of cowardice or desertion. You know what that would entail," McGonagall said sharply.

"Yes, Sir!" Oliver said after he had swallowed heavily. His men would need to be on their best behaviour then.

"Any and all attempts of contact from the Germans are to be answered with gun fire," McGonagall continued. "We can't have a second Somme."

Oliver flinched, he had fought in the bloody battle and he didn't want to repeat anything like it ever again. It was a wonder that he was still alive, but he had lost many men and he blamed himself. "Yes, Sir. We will be ready to shoot at any time, sir."

McGonagall nodded gravely. "Just make sure that you don't shoot our own, Major." He emphasized the last word.

"Yes, Sir," Oliver repeated wincing at the reminder that he hadn't been promoted thanks to his actions last Christmas and his failure in the Battle of the Somme.

"You can go," McGonagall said finally and Oliver hurriedly took his leave.

* * *

"Major Flint!" Oberst Severus Snape called after him and Marcus instinctively hunched over his shoulders.

"Yes, Oberst?" Marcus said turning around and trying not to wince at the sight of his superior looming over him.

"My office, now!" Snape hissed and Marcus followed him dejectedly. Ever since he had disobeyed the orders of the OHL last Christmas, the Oberst had treated him like a traitor. Caning him and forcing him to do the same with his subordinate officers hadn't been enough to calm his rage. And ever since the bloodbath in Verdun he had been more vicious than ever. Generalmajor Riddle seemed to blame the Oberst for his failure to fight clean and fast.

When Snape had positioned himself behind his desk, Marcus immediately stood at attention. "I assume you were told of your position for Christmas?" Snape asked with a sneer.

"Yes, Oberst, my battalion will be ready at dawn," Marcus answered as calmly as possible.

"Last year I left you in your rank and only administered the official punishment, if you fail me this year again, I will report it to Generalmajor Riddle. Don't make me do that," Snape said crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"Understood," Marcus said nodding his head. He understood all too clearly. He wouldn't be able to give his men a breather this year.

"Fall out," Snape said finally, making a shooing motion with his hand.

Marcus saluted and left the room. Outside he lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. Luckily it was day or he would be an amazing target for the snipers. He thought of Major Oliver Wood, the chain-smoking Scotsman, the talented keeper, the enemy.

Clenching his fist Marcus drew himself away from his traitorous thoughts. Ever since last Christmas he had trouble shooting the tommies, always fearing that he would hit Oliver someday. Maybe that was the reason why he had been so vicious in Verdun. But it didn't matter, he was standing against British forces once again and even worse he would have to shoot every red-coat he saw. If he didn't he would be executed as soon as word got out. And word always got out, spies amongst his own men were nothing new, but the longer the war dragged on the less forgiving the officers were.

Marcus returned to his barrack and called his subordinate officers to get them up to date. He had four Hauptmänner, one for each company. Theodore Nott, Graham Montague, Cassius Warrington and Peter Parkinson were very determined and capable young men, and sadly they were still caught in war fever. Montague and Warrington served nearly as long as Marcus himself but they were war mongers. Nott and Parkinson were young, that was Marcus's only explanation for their enthusiasm.

When he had shown them their positions along the defence line on the map, the young men had shown the same excitement he had: None. It was literally the worst position they could have gotten and it was Marcus's fault.

"I know it's not ideal," Marcus ignored the snort from Parkinson. "But we've had worse. Put your best soldiers in the back, if you want to keep them. Fall out."

The men shuffled out, whispering among themselves. Only Hauptmann Montague stayed behind. "Major, we could have stopped you from agreeing to the truce last year. It's our punishment as well."

"Thank you, Montague, I appreciate the thought," Marcus said quietly. "But we both know that you would have been punished harder for mutiny than for allowing a truce."

Montague nodded. "Be that as it may, it's still awful."

Marcus laughed mirthlessly. "Make sure that the ears on the wall don't hear you say that."

* * *

Oliver cursed the day Brigadier General Dumbledore and Colonel McGonagall and all the other superiors had been born as he yelled for his men to charge. He had spotted a rather familiar mop of dark brown hair among the Germans and he prayed to God that the Major was intelligent enough to keep out of the direct combat. And out of the way of the grenades they threw at the enemies.

Just when he had thought that, a grenade came hurtling right to his position. How had they managed to throw it this far?!

The first explosion swept Oliver off his feet and the ringing in his ears hadn't yet stopped when the second explosion went off right next to him. Oliver crawled sideways for cover and hoped that whatever the Germans used to throw their grenades would be limited somewhat.

Only when he tried to push himself upwards did he notice the gaping hole in his uniform sleeve and the trail of blood he had left behind. Oliver inspected his arm closer and had to breathe in deeply when he realised that he was able to see his bone.

"Johnson!" he whispered urgently and the Captain appeared at his side. He was soot streaked but seemed unharmed.

"What is it, sir?" Johnson asked quietly until he looked downwards. His eyes became as big as saucers and he ripped up part of his shirt immediately.

Oliver heard him call for a stretcher and alcohol but the Major was already drifting off from the blood loss.

* * *

Marcus flinched when he saw the sandy haired Major fall. He put away his field glass and returned to yelling at his men. He wondered which idiot had managed to hit the enemy officers. That was - sadly - promotion worthy. Even if the fool had hit his favourite enemy. Hopefully Oliver wasn't injured too badly. Marcus didn't even want to think about the possibility of him being dead.

But since Oliver was already down, Marcus was able to focus on the movement of the troops. When his men were moving the way he wanted them to, he chose to take out the enemy with well aimed shots. He had never been too good at playing sharpshooter but the distance wasn't too great for him to take out enemies if they didn't move in the 'right' direction.

It was late at night when they made camp. They had gained a few meters on the enemy and Marcus felt a bit better. He was awaiting the report of his scouts while eating his cold meal of dried meat.

When the scouts finally returned they were sent straight to his tent. Marcus sat bowed over a map of the plain they were currently fighting over. He would never admit it out loud, but he loved the actual attacks more than the tactical work behind them.

"Major?" A voice interrupted his train of thoughts.

"You are one of the scouts?" Marcus asked while sitting up straighter.

"Yes, Major! I'm here for my report," the soldier said and Marcus motioned for him to step in. "The enemy has taken camp right behind this line of trees." The scout pointed on the map. "Their major was wounded badly during the fighting. He will be out for the next few days and Captain Johnson was promoted temporarily. They have sentries every three meters, but they don't expect an attack for tonight."

"Understandably so," Marcus murmured. "Is that all?"

"Yes, Major!" the scout said saluting.

"Good, go and get yourself some food," Marcus said and the scout left with another salute.

So Oliver had been hurt so badly that he had to stay in sickbay for the next few days? He probably would have a better Christmas there than out in the field, but still. Marcus hoped that the Scot wasn't hurt so badly that he was discharged. He didn't know nearly enough about the man yet.

The other three scouts reported nearly the same things as the first one and he sent them away just as quickly. Then Marcus called for Warrington. It had been one of his men that had thrown the grenades at Oliver.

"You wanted to talk to me Major?" Warrington said upon entering.

"Indeed, please take a seat," Marcus said distractedly. "I wondered if you know which of your men managed to hit the enemy officers."

Warrington swallowed. "I already asked around but for some reason nobody seemed to have seen or done anything."

"Is there a possibility that the man fell in the ensuing battle?" Marcus asked now much more attentive.

"I don't think so, otherwise someone surely would have spoken up," Warrington said calmly. "Major, would you know of any reason why our men would think we would be displeased if we found the one responsible?"

Marcus leant back staring at the lamp overhead. "I don't think so, only if they didn't want to be promoted, but who wouldn't want that?"

"I can think of a few people who have actually realised, that higher positions would be no good for them," Warrington said slowly. "Maybe we could tell them that we only want to reward them with holidays?"

"That sounds sensible," Marcus said and stood up. "I'm going to come with you, to make it official."

* * *

When Oliver woke up, he had for once not one curse at the tip of his tongue, only a prayer of thanks to whatever deity had watched over him. The war tended to either strengthen your belief in God or make you fall from believing at all. Oliver was teetering on the edge and he was nearly sure that only his very religious childhood was keeping him in his faith now.

As soon as the world stopped spinning Oliver tried to sit up, but rough hands pushed him back into the mattress.

"Don't you dare move, your stitches are still fresh," the red-headed nurse scolded.

"Ginny?" he asked groggily surprised how raw his voice sounded.

"The one and only," she answered while putting a cup with water at his lips. "You were out for two days before you ask. A concussion and the grenade ripped away quite a bit of your arm, you have deep cuts all over your left side. The dent in your arm will probably stay but at least you didn't lose it and your tendons weren't hurt too much."

"Thank you," Oliver whispered when she stopped her rant. Ginny Weasley had tended to him many times over the last years and she already knew what he wanted to know first.

"Pleasure. I'm going to get the doctor," she said crisply and turned to leave.

By now Oliver heard the moans and screams of the other inhabitants of the sickbay. He hated it. Even more so since he knew that he would have to stay at least two more days thanks to the stitches. Sleep was a luxury in war at the best times and in the sickbay it became a wonderful state seldom reached.

Suddenly Oliver remembered the reason why he hadn't seen the grenades coming, Major Marcus Flint. The man had been there on the other side of the battlefield. Watching the enemy through his field glasses. Oliver wondered whether he had spotted him before he was hurt.


	4. 1917

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the warnings! (And sorry for that kind-of-cliffy) Betalove to reynardinepttr.

Head nurse Minerva McGonagall clicked her tongue disapprovingly. Her brother had just asked her to release Oliver early.

"Love, you have to understand! We need him in this manoeuvre! He developed the strategy and only he will be able to change it in a way that it still works if needed," the Colonel said agitatedly.

"I understand, but his wounds have not yet closed and it would be rather unbefitting for a major to suddenly collapse on the battlefield from blood loss!" Minerva McGonagall said sharply and her younger brother recoiled visibly.

Oliver wondered idly whether they would ask his opinion on the matter or not. McGonagalls tended to be stubborn as mules and he knew that both his colonel and the head nurse were excellent examples of that trait. They were probably the pride of their clan.

"Colonel, to be frank, I have to agree with you, Sir," Oliver said sitting a bit straighter. The combined glare of the two McGonagall siblings was hard to bear but he bravely held it. "The mission probably wouldn't collapse without me, but it would be safer for the success if I led it as planned."

"Major, your zeal is recommendable, but Minerva is probably right, your injuries should be healed before you go back into action," the Colonel said with a glance at his sister who smiled smugly. "Is there any way he could join us without straining his injuries too much?"

"A tight wrapping around his arm and side should help, and a glove for his hand," the nurse said, her annoyance obvious. She was most likely the only person allowed to speak to the Colonel like that.

"Then we will do that," Colonel McGonagall said, and his sister gave a short nod that spoke of her irritation.

When the Colonel had left, McGonagall called for Ginny to help her. The red-head came over immediately and started preparing the bandages.

"How is it, Major, that you tend to injure your left side?" she asked while wrapping his upper arm.

Oliver hissed at the pain. The cuts had been deep and while the stitches had been removed last night they weren't healed yet. "That's a very good question, Miss Weasley. If I don't watch where I go nothing much will be left of that side," Oliver said through clenched teeth, raising his hand where only three fingers were left. Well luckily he still had his right ring finger.

"Well, just make sure the enemies don't get on your right side then," Ginny joked and Oliver laughed.

He was aware that he was exceptionally lucky to have started as a Lieutenant in the war. Those soldiers who were fighting directly at the front had less luck. Most died, those who didn't were crippled. Since the Germans had begun with the gas attacks many had gone blind. Grenades and bullets had ripped away faces and limbs, and while the men would sometimes survive they were outcasts when they came home. Losing parts of his arm and hand, and his shrapnel wounds were really the most the higher officers would probably suffer. They weren't in direct combat and it wasn't very often that they were hurt badly.

After thirty minutes of excruciating pain, Oliver was allowed to sit up and dress. Ginny gave him some bandages to put into his glove and he thanked her with a smile. She was one of the few nurses who weren't gone after their first year in the war and he admired her resilience.

"Miss Weasley?" he called when she turned to go.

"Yes, Major Wood?" She turned around and he saw how tired she was.

"I just wanted you to know that you are one of the bravest women I have ever seen," Oliver said with a little salute.

Ginny smiled. "Thank you, Major."

She left to tend to the other inhabitants of the sickbay and Oliver stood up slowly, leaving the barracks. He was happy to be finally away from it. The last week had been awful. He was sure that he would hear the cries of the dying for the rest of his life. Together with the sounds of the drumfire.

Sighing, Oliver lit his fag. Another thing he had missed in the sickbay. McGonagall said the smoke was bad for her patients and Oliver did believe her to a point. He walked towards the office building and went inside his office, just to find Major Johnson there. After he had shown himself to be a capable leader last Christmas, he had been promoted by McGonagall after a few more tests.

"Johnson, it's good to see you!" Oliver said with a bright smile.

"Likewise, Wood, I see you managed to injure yourself once again?" Johnson said standing up and shaking his hand.

"Don't remind me," Oliver groaned. "I seem to always get hurt around Christmas. Now, what brought you to my office? Did somebody tell you that I would be released today?"

Johnson nodded. "The Colonel stopped by and told me to bring you up to date on the movements of the Germans."

Oliver sat down behind his desk and motioned for Johnson to begin.

* * *

Marcus eyed the map in front of him suspiciously. It seemed that the OHL was still displeased with him for this summer. They were definitely using his battalion as cannon fodder and Marcus wondered why they had to punish him by killing his men. But he bit down on his anger and tried to find a strategy that wouldn't get them all killed.

"Major, Major Flint!" Suddenly a yelling soldier broke his concentration barging in without knocking.

"That will be ten lashes for interrupting an officer, Feldwebel!" Marcus barked and the soldier shrank back under his heated glare.

"I'm sorry, Major, but we have a big problem! One of my men just returned from scout duty and it seems that Major Wood will command the attack after all!" the Feldwebel said hurriedly.

"Was zur Hölle! I thought he would be in sickbay for at least a week longer!" Marcus barely refrained from yelling, he didn't want to scare the Feldwebel shitless. That wouldn't be useful.

"It seems they released him earlier so he could lead the attack," the Feldwebel answered with a quivering voice.

"Verdammt," Marcus whispered. If Oliver led the attack his battalion was as good as dead. Over the years the man had learned military strategy to a T and Marcus wondered why he was still only a major.

"What are your orders, Major?" the Feldwebel asked quietly and Marcus looked up from the map on his table.

"Fall out and report for your punishment, five lashes only because the information was important. But you can't just barge in," Marcus said refocusing on his map. They were doomed. They would be lucky if half the battalion survived this manoeuvre. The Brits had tanks and much better artillery than they had. God knows why the OHL and the emperor didn't invest in newer technology.

Marcus heard the door click shut and he allowed himself a pained groan. They didn't even have much chance that anyone would be close enough to step in before they would be destroyed.

He cursed and threw his ink pot against the wall. He needed a cigarette, now. Or even better, some strong alcohol, but even the higher officers hadn't seen a bottle of beer in a month. The whole country was starving while the nobles still attended their lavish parties. Marcus had been to one in early October. He had left within the first hour, sickened by their carelessness. Generalleutnant Riddle had flaunted all he had and Marcus could only think of his pest infected and starving soldiers. After four years of war he hadn't thought he had any conscience left, but he had been proven wrong.

But what could he do to let his soldiers survive? It seemed hopeless. Marcus was devoid of any ideas. Since the last year they were already down to three companies and the men were just as de-motivated as their Major.

They had heard of the revolution in Russia, knew that the Americans had joined the war. While the Ottoman Empire still was their most powerful ally, they knew the others were more and stronger. And while they managed to more or less hold the lines their people at home were starving because everything the country had was put into the war effort. And for what? They didn't seem to be winning anytime soon.

Marcus eyed the revolver on his desk. It would be a coward's way out. His men would still die. Or maybe it would help his frustration to shoot at something. He could take a handful of soldiers and go scouting himself. If he was lucky the landscape would give him hints.

Marcus stood up and took what he would need. His field glasses, weapons. He would get himself the uniform of a Feldwebel and ask the Oberst for leave.

For a moment Marcus thought he didn't care whether he was killed on the mission. Nott was more than capable to take over and he would have less of a problem with the OHL.

On his way outside Marcus lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. He remembered the English stuff he had smoked what felt like ages ago. No time for sentimentality! he scolded himself.

oOo

Two hours later Marcus and fifteen foot soldiers were on their way into border territory. The scouts hadn't seen any British movement anywhere close so they would be more or less safe.

They trudged through the forest, always on the lookout for signs of enemy soldiers or traps. While they encountered a few landmines they were able to deactivate them safely. It would make their trip on the next day easier.

When they reached the last trees the men went on their knees and started crawling slowly. Marcus thanked God that it hadn't rained in the last few days or otherwise the would have been seen immediately thanks to the trail they left behind.

They were able to crawl behind a small hill with a boulder on it and positioned themselves around it. Marcus took his field glasses and slowly eased upwards to take a look on the British base on the other side of the plain.

The Brits were preparing themselves for an attack as well. Suddenly Marcus frowned. Something wasn't right.

"Major, is everything alright?" the soldier next to him asked when Marcus sunk down on the ground, white as a sheet.

"I don't think they are going to attack tomorrow," Marcus said his voice breaking.

"What?" another soldier asked and Marcus silently passed him the field glasses.

"See for yourself," he said weakly.

"Verdammte Scheiße," the soldier whispered.

So Marcus hadn't seen wrong. The Brits would attack within the day. And they had tanks, at least twenty. Tanks meant there were airplanes lurking somewhere behind the lines.

And right then the revolver on his hip seemed lovely again. But Marcus shook himself out of his shock and commanded his men to start crawling back. They needed to tell the Oberst so it could be decided what they would do next.

* * *

Oliver wasn't happy with the situation at hand. They would combine an air strike with a tank attack, a day earlier than planned. They wanted to use the surprise effect and hoped that the Germans would surrender.

But then he had been told that Major Flint was in the base. That he was to be positioned right at the front with his men. Oliver hesitated to give the marching orders but if he didn't do it soon he would be punished for mutiny.

Silently apologising to Marcus Oliver stood up from his spot outside the command centre. He put out the fag under his boot and turned to go back inside.

They would march today at three o'clock and Oliver told his heart to stop feeling. This was war, he couldn't save the other man.

* * *

Marcus ran back into the camp at a sprint. The soldiers were behind him as he went right up to Oberst Slughorn and Generalmajor Snape. He saluted trying to catch his breath.

"What is it, Major," Snape sneered.

"Generalmajor, Oberst, we have a major problem. The Brits prepare the attack for today. They have at least twenty tanks and they seldom attack without an airstrike," Marcus whispered to not let the surrounding soldiers hear it.

Slughorn blanched. "Are you quite sure, Major?"

Marcus nodded grimly. "I am. If I was to guess, I'd say they prepare the attack for this afternoon."

Slughorn and Snape exchanged a worried glance. "We will discuss this in my office, Major," Snape finally said, unusually calm.

oOo

Marcus cursed fluently in German. They had decided to wait out the airstrike in the buildings, hoping, maybe futilely, that it would be safer than outside. But by now men had been killed by walls that collapsed on top of them and the attack didn't seem to be waning.

They listened for the explosions, always hoping that this one would be the last one. This one wasn't, this one neither, this one…wasn't. Marcus sat there among the other officers, curled tightly, shaking with fear.

Even Slughorn, who had had to stay while Snape had been called to another, safer, base, was shaking. Marcus thought he heard him praying. But he himself couldn't find comfort in the belief in a god who hadn't shown him any kindness or mercy so far.

He kept his thoughts occupied with the memory of sandy blond hair and hazel eyes. He remembered those eyes gleaming with fire during the football game. He remembered them rolling around in the mud, focused on him, watching him closely for any sign of surrender. He tried not to think of the body falling backwards and being thrown into the air again.

Marcus sighed and closed his eyes, trying to erase the picture of a bleeding Oliver from his mind.

Just then an explosion went off right outside the building, and Marcus's vision became tinted red, every thought reduced to silent screaming. His left side burned as if set on fire and when the dust settled Marcus saw that he was caught under a part of the wall.

Slughorn next to him didn't move, a huge dent in his head. The others seemed to be alive, for the moment. The soldiers sitting there with huge eyes, shell shocked.

Marcus refrained from screaming out loud. No reason to alert the enemy to his presence. Sinking back he thought of the mountains of his home, of the quiet purr of his favourite cat and of smiling hazel eyes. He had to see all this again, he had to.


	5. 1918

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: The last installment of my little Christmas story! I hope you enjoyed it so far and return for more Flintwood soon. Again reynardinepttr was my amazing beta :)

Oliver was glad to be home. Even if he barely recognised the people he called family. His mother looked older than her years, his father had left half his mind in the trenches in France. Oliver was glad that he had no siblings, only cousins. Most of the men in his family and hometown were either dead or crippled.

He had heard that one of the Weasley twins had been in killed in one of the last battles of the war. The family was mourning and the remaining twin had sought solace in tar. Bill had married his fiancé, Charlie returned to Romania and Percy went back to working for the government. Ron was said to have become a police officer and Ginny stayed a nurse.

Angus Johnson had resigned from the army after the war and left for America. Oliver heard that Miss Granger and Major Malfoy moved there as well.

Sighing, Oliver took a last drag of his fag and put it out under his boot. He would have to return inside soon. His mother would become worried and she would need help with the pudding for tomorrow.

Taking one last look at the darkening sky, Oliver wondered how Marcus Flint was faring now. He had considered this ever since the capitulation of Germany in November. Oliver knew that Marcus had been injured heavily during last Christmas's airstrike. But he survived, and as far as Oliver had found out he hadn't suffered from long-term consequences.

Stepping back into the stuffy kitchen, Oliver tried to push the thoughts of the handsome German away. It wasn't right to think of such things. While Oliver had lost his faith in any religion on the battlefields, this truth was still ingrained in him.

When Ailsa Wood bustled into the kitchen and started giving orders to him, Oliver was able to tear himself from his thoughts. For the next hour he was fully consumed by cutting things for pudding and dinner and he had to admit that his mother could be scarier than his colonel.

* * *

Marcus pulled his cloak closer around himself when he stepped out of the train. One hand holding his bag, the other securing his scarf in place. The patch over his left eye was itchy, but he was vain today. Thanks to an old friend in the German embassy in London, he had found out where Major Oliver Wood lived.

He hadn't thought that Glasgow would be this big though. And thanks to his last minute decision it was nearing midnight and the Christmas mass would start soon. Marcus pondered whether he would find a room this late in the evening, and as a German no less. Maybe he could ask the priest after the mass. Surely the church would give asylum to a traveller.

Lighting a cigarette, Marcus positioned himself under the closest street lamp to read the map he had bought before boarding the train. Down the street and to the left should be a church; it seemed to be the closest and Marcus made sure he remembered the way before he put the map back into his bag.

The waning moon and the thin layer of snow made for an eerie atmosphere, and suddenly he missed the traditional window lights at his home in the Erzgebirge. They gave the city a warm glow even in the harshest of winters and his mother had always made sure that even the poorest had at least one light for Christmas Eve.

The lights were said to be a guidance for the mine workers coming home in the dark. But for Marcus it felt more like they were trying to remind the people that the light of the sun would come back soon.

The closer he came to the church the more people he saw. Mostly families, some without a father or grandfather in sight. But there were also other veterans. They seemed to be going to church together and seeing these men, broken by war, Marcus nearly turned around to leave. He had no right to share the mass with them. He and his men were the reason some of these men couldn't even walk anymore. That they had to guide those who had been blinded in the war. That they didn't need the sleeves of their coats.

Marcus knew they would recognise him as one of them. His scars and his eye patch weren't as prominent as their wounds, but veterans recognised each other. They would ask questions and they wouldn't be happy to hear that he was a German.

Standing right in front of the church, Marcus felt his chest tighten. He couldn't sully this holy night with his presence. He should have stayed at home, should have gone to church with his parents, should have given them their presents in person, should have-

"Major Flint?" someone called suddenly and looking up, Marcus thought he recognised him as a British officer who had worked with Oliver.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" he asked while walking towards the man.

"We met during two Christmas truces, I'm Angus Johnson," the young man said with a friendly smile, and stretched his hand out.

Marcus took it dazedly. Why was the man so friendly?

"Oliver will be over the moon when he hears that you're here!" Johnson said grinning brightly. Marcus checked him for any visible head injuries.

"Why would he be?" he asked bitterly. "I'm the enemy. My men killed so many of yours…"

Johnson looked at him critically. "I doubt that he blames you for it. We killed just as many, if not more, of yours."

Marcus looked over to the other veterans who were waiting by the doors of the church. "I doubt that they will understand," he said gruffly turning to go.

"You came all the way to Glasgow just to leave because a few people will hate you because of a war you didn't start?" Johnson asked quietly, grasping his arm and for the first time Marcus looked properly at the man.

He had scars across his face, one pulling down his mouth to a constant frown. The hand that had stopped Marcus from leaving was barely recognisable under the scars. "How can you forgive me, Johnson?"

"It's Angus to you: a friend of Oliver's is a friend of mine," the young man said easily. "And I can forgive you because I fought in the same war. I can forgive you because I know that you didn't choose it, just like I didn't. Let those leeches called journalists say it was all Germany's fault. But I personally think that if anyone is to blame it would be your emperor, not the soldiers who had to fight his war. Not the people whose families were ripped apart."

Marcus looked over to the river. He wondered if what Johnson said was true, that you couldn't blame a whole nation for a war. His father had never really supported the war, that had been made very clear in the last two months. Maybe Johnson was right.

"Oh, look, there's Oliver!" the man suddenly called and Marcus looked up and followed the man's pointed finger.

There were three figures walking through the snow on the other side of the street. A man bowed deeply over his walking cane, a woman hanging on the arm of the much younger man with sandy blond hair. Marcus smiled a bit when he saw how the woman fussed over Oliver.

When they came closer he saw the other's eyes widen in surprise. Marcus smiled broadly and greeted them with a half-bow. "Major Wood."

* * *

Oliver felt his mouth go dry. Marcus! Marcus Flint in front of St Andrews in Glasgow! He barely recognised him with the eyepatch and a scarf around the lower half of his face. But that voice. He would probably recognise it everywhere.

"Now, son, won't you introduce us to this dashing young man?" his mother asked, with a polite nod to Johnson who was standing next to Marcus. Had he brought the man here? After all he came home all the way from America for Christmas.

"I'm sorry, Mother, of course," Oliver said hastily clearing his throat. "This is Major Marcus Flint, he fought for the Germans in the war. We met two times on Christmas for a truce."

"My pleasure," Marcus said with a bow to Paul Wood, who was glaring at him. "Sadly Mr Wood didn't tell me nearly enough about you, sir, ma'am."

With that he kissed Ailsa's hand and Oliver was baffled by his refined manners until he remembered that Marcus was actually the only son of a baron.

"We will leave you young gentlemen to catch up before the mass," Ailsa said and pulled his father along to the cathedral.

"I have to go as well or my mother will scold me for being late," Angus said flicking a glance between the two other men.

"We will be right along," Oliver finally said, realising that Angus asked for leave.

As soon as they were alone Oliver pulled Marcus into a bear hug. "I'm glad you're still in one piece."

Marcus looked startled but hugged him back. "More or less," he said giving the other man a once over. "How are you?"

"Missing a few pieces but overall pretty good," Oliver said, and for the first time since he returned home it felt more like the truth.

"Do I even want to know?" Marcus asked with a teasing smirk.

"Just two fingers and a bit of my forearm," Oliver said laughing. "Oh, and the tip of my right ear, that shrapnel was really wicked."

Marcus laughed his barking laughter and Oliver felt himself grinning stupidly. "Tell me about it, I nearly left the war without any major wounds and then this sucker of a bomb explodes right next to me!"

Oliver grinned at the indignation in Marcus voice. He watched the other man smile, feeling more content and happy than he had in a long time. Maybe everything would be alright after all. "How much time do we have left?" he suddenly asked.

Marcus took out his pocket watch and flipped it open. "Quarter of an hour, why?"

"I need a smoke now if I want to live through the mass," Oliver said quietly, all humour having left his voice.

"Sounds good, maybe we could walk down to the river? I'd like to see it," Marcus suggested and Oliver nodded.

They walked in silence and once down at the river bank they each lit a fag, leaning on the railing. Oliver wondered how to continue. He would hate to lose Marcus as a friend, but the other surely didn't have the same feelings for him. Oliver didn't think he could survive pretending not to love the German. Because, fucking hell, this was it. He was in love with Marcus.

"You know, I didn't exactly come all the way from Germany just to smoke with you," Marcus said quietly and Oliver's head snapped up at the unusually subdued tone.

"I- I'm sorry, I'm a bit pensive lately," Oliver mumbled, re-lighting his fag.

"Me as well," Marcus said. "My father is pressuring me to marry a suitable woman."

Oliver's heart clenched. "And do you have someone in mind?" he tried to ask casually.

"Not really," Marcus said lightly, flicking his bud into the Clyde. "Someone else, who is entirely unsuitable, is keeping my head occupied. For four years now, can you believe it?"

"Four years? Did you meet a beautiful French country girl?" Oliver asked, trying not to sound choked up.

"We were in Belgium four years ago, idiot," Marcus said teasingly but Oliver couldn't laugh. "My, you can be really thick sometimes!" the German suddenly exclaimed.

Oliver turned to him with a confused frown and was rather startled when the other man pulled him closer and- kissed him!

Oliver pushed him away after a second. "What the hell?" he asked in hushed whispers.

Marcus face immediately shut down and suddenly Oliver found himself face to face with Major Flint who used harsh words and caning to keep his men in line. "I'm sorry, I thought.. Never mind, I will be leaving."

Without thinking Oliver grabbed his sleeve and pulled him deeper into the shadows of a willow tree. Then he turned around and kissed the man properly.

And while their lips were cold and their scarves were in the way, it was the best kiss Oliver had ever had. He was smiling and when Marcus put his arms around him to pull him closer Oliver felt warmth blossom in his heart.

"I love you, you Scottish brute," Marcus whispered when they finally stopped kissing.

"I love you too, you awful man," Oliver said with certainty.

"Don't you ever give me such a fright again!" Marcus ordered with a serious stare.

"Aye, aye, Sir," Oliver said chuckling.

Just then the bells of the cathedral started to chime and after a last chaste kiss they started running back to the church.

* * *

Marcus was smiling all through the mass. Of course they couldn't risk doing something as silly as holding hands but if he sat any closer to Oliver he would be sitting on his lap. Mrs Wood had admonished them for being nearly late but her gaze had softened at the happy smile on Oliver's face.

When they stepped outside it had started to snow lightly, and Marcus thought this Christmas couldn't get any better. He was proved wrong when Mrs Wood asked where he was staying, and Oliver answered immediately that he would stay with them.

"I'm nearly sure you didn't think to get a room in a hotel before you came here," Oliver teased him and Marcus had to admit that he was right.

"Young men, never thinking more than two steps ahead," Mrs Wood tsked, but Marcus caught the gleam of humour in her eyes.

"I'm afraid I don't have any presents for you though," Marcus said, a bit downtrodden, and Mrs Wood scoffed in a very unladylike way.

"As if we would expect you coming bearing gifts. I heard it's not exactly easy over there," she said, looking pensieve.

"Well, what did they expect, bleeding out the country like that," Mr Wood said. It was the first thing he had said at all.

Mrs Wood was already starting to protest, but Marcus cut in. "Exactly, now throw in two years of bad crops and losing the war and you'll have the current situation. My father is trying to help our tenants where he can. But his funds aren't as full as they were before the war."

Mr Wood looked at Marcus with a hard stare. "You're a noble?"

"A baron's son," he said with a nod. "We own a bit of land in the Erzgebirge."

"So that's the reason for your atrocious accent," Mr Wood said bluntly.

Marcus laughed. "Probably, my father tried everything but while I have a good sense for grammar, I'm useless at pronunciation."

Oliver and his mother were chuckling quietly. Mr Wood stayed silent for the rest of the walk to their home. They lived in a large city house and Marcus was assured that there was more than enough space for him.

"Normally we have a maid, but I gave her a few days off for Christmas so she could visit her family," Mrs Wood explained while she pulled out sheets for the bed. "Did you at least remember to bring clothes to change?"

Marcus raised the small bag he had been carrying all the time. The military had taught him how to stash his things so he wouldn't need a big backpack.

After everything had quieted down and Marcus was already starting to get drowsy, lying on his bed, he heard a light knock.

"Who's there?" he whispered.

"It's Oliver," the man whispered back, and Marcus hastily went to the door and opened it.

"What is it?" he asked concern lacing his voice.

"I wondered, whether I could sleep in your bed tonight?" Oliver asked timidly, and at Marcus's shocked look he hurried to add, "Just sleeping! Jesus, get your mind out of the gutter!"

"I-, uh, sure," Marcus said uncertainly, and stepped to the side so Oliver could enter.

They settled down on the bed and Oliver put his arm around Marcus's middle. Soon he drifted off to sleep, feeling himself smiling slightly.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my story! I hope you liked it, please tell me in the comments :)


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